


When life gives you lemons, you paint that shit gold

by crayyyonn



Category: The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Clint/Coulson Holiday Exchange, I Believe in Jasper Sitwell, M/M, Minor Natasha Romanov/Sam Wilson, Phil Coulson & Jasper Sitwell Friendship, Phone Sex, mention of minor character deaths, surprisingly little sex for a phone sex fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:52:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,154
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2750102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crayyyonn/pseuds/crayyyonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/pseuds/pagination">pagination's</a> prompt: Phone sex operator Phil has a regular, who occasionally calls when he's lonely. And then sometimes he calls needing a cool head to talk him through odd situations.</p>
            </blockquote>





	When life gives you lemons, you paint that shit gold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pagination](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pagination/gifts).



> I hope you like it. Happy Holidays!

Becoming a professional phone sex operator wasn’t exactly Phil’s first choice in career. Nor was it the second, third, fourth, or even tenth option. In fact, ‘professional phone sex operator’—and here he lets out a derisive snort—has never been anywhere in the later chapters of Phil’s as-of-yet unwritten future.

Little could he predict that his parents would pass away consecutively in the two years following his graduation, saddling him with a thankfully mostly paid off mortgage, in addition to the thousands in student debt he racked up in the short few years he had spent studying for a Psychology degree. A prudent choice in major, one would think, except with the state the economy was in, it pretty much guaranteed anything but a job.

With nothing to his name but a bunch of rotten lemons life had seen fit to throw Phil’s way, salvation finally came in the form of Nick Fury, his old college roommate. _I just started a company_ , he said. _It’ll be fun_ , he said. Followed by flexible hours, no benefits but great pay, and _all you’d have to do is sit in the office and talk to people on the phone, Phil. It’s kinda like counselling, except—_

And right there, Phil Coulson, unemployed fresh graduate living off the last dregs of his quickly depleting inheritance, cuts him off, saying what the hell, where do I sign.

Because Nick is a friend. Nick is the window God opened. Nick is the Mexican elbow to Phil’s life lemons, who is honorable and trustworthy and true, and—

Phil takes it all back, Nick Fury is not a friend.

He really should have let him finish.

But in the following years—years of neatly printing “self-employed” on immigration cards and getting increasingly adept at ducking “So you never mentioned what it is you do…” conversations—he does get the mortgage on his brownstone settled, and is starting to make great headway on reclaiming his soul from the bank he owes his student loan to, so he figures he owes Nick an apology for un-friending him, if only in his own head. In fact, now that he’s finally back to eating three square meals a day, after scrimping and saving for years just so he could make ends meet, and even has a respectable nest egg set aside for rainy days, he’s seriously considering sending the man a fruit basket.

All in all, Phil decides, despite the hiccups, he has done a pretty good job in getting his life back into some semblance of order. So he’s really not to blame for his lack of amenability when life throws him yet another curveball, this time in the form of one Clint Barton.

A wad of paper bounces off the top of his head, making him jump in his seat. Disgruntled, he peers up over the top of his glasses as he dog-ears the page of his book.

“Your face will set that way if you’re not careful, Grumpy,” Skye says breezily as she smacks her gum. “Your Tuesday guy’s on line 2.”

Phil perks up. Throughout his short but illustrious career as a virtual talking dildo, he’s only ever had three regulars. Or two now, ever since trichophiliac Jasper Sitwell—his only client-turned-friend from his earliest days in the industry—had gone and gotten himself married to possibly the scariest woman Phil has ever met.

(Seriously, Phil thinks she could kill him with just a look. Or her bare hands. And possibly those stiletto boots. Having finally met Jasper at his wedding, Phil also finally understands why Jasper gets off talking about hair. It’s because he has none of his own.)

Clicking on his receiver, Phil adjusts the microphone so it’s level with his lips. “Hey.”

The burst of laughter makes warmth puddle in his belly. “What, no ’you sexy thing’ today?” Clint says, shit-eating grin evident even through the exaggerated drawl.

Phil smirks. “We’ve established that we don’t need empty platitudes or dirty talk to get you off, haven’t we?”

“Yeah, yeah.” Phil hears a chuckle, then a faint groan. He rolls his eyes.

“Let me guess, you got started on your own and then couldn’t finish, so you called.”

“Harsh, Phil. But—” A resounding crash filters through the receiver into Phil’s ears, followed by a litany of curses. “No, I broke my feet at work,” comes the slightly breathless explanation. “Don’t worry, they’re healed. I just need to stay off them for the rest of the week, which means I can’t go anywhere or do anything and god help me but I am so bored."

Amused, Phil snorts. “Well,” he says, drawing out the word. “I know just the thing to distract you.”

“Yeah?” Clint’s voice is husky, hopeful. “What’s that?”

“Hmm, how does a massage sound? You, spread out on a bed with just a tiny towel, all oiled up and ready for me to work my magic,” Phil replies seductively.

He grins when he hears another groan, this time sounding less pained and more aroused. He listens for the fabric rustling that’s routine to their calls, an indication that Clint’s getting comfortable on his big bed where he’s undoubtedly surrounded by a nest of pillows.

Then Clint’s breath catches, followed by a lusty sigh, and Phil pictures worn boxers and a warm, calloused hand sliding past, resting lightly over his crotch.

“Tell me more,” comes the command, so Phil does.

 

***

 

Although Clint is fast becoming known in the agency as Phil's Tuesday regular, the first time Clint calls _Lip Service_ was not on a Tuesday.

Instead, it was a Sunday, one of those that falls on the tail end of summer, when the air is just beginning to turn crisp and cool, the trees awash with bronze and gold.

The call started out as one of those run of the mill, badly spun “Hey, I’ve got this fantasy and I want you to play along” types, but there were barely two minutes on the clock when Clint stops, confessing,

“Screw it, I don’t really know how to do this, I just need to get off.”

He sounds so miserable that Phil actually looks up from the email he was typing, wondering if he should ask, when the man goes off on a rant about his job and how he’s given everything to it and for what? To get hit by some stupid sex ray—and here Phil raises his eyebrows, because what in the world?—that makes him randy as fuck but unable to come unless it’s with a partner and _what sort of fucked up bastard would even dream up this crap?_

Delicately, Phil suggests picking up someone at the bar, only to be met with violent objection.

“You think I don’t want to? You’d think they’d know that we’d at least have to have that option, but no, it’s all _‘We can’t risk it being contagious, Barton’_ , _‘We need to observe the mutation of the foreign cell, Barton.’_ And when I tell them I’ve had blue balls for over four fucking hours, all they do is give me a phone before throwing me into quarantine! For science!”

 _They_? Phil mouths curiously before telling him, “Well, by putting you under observation, they can respond immediately in case your body exhibits adverse effects from being exposed to whatever it is you contracted. Frankly, I think it’s the most prudent path.”

“Mother of Christ, you sound just like them,” Clint growls. “You try jacking off forever and be physically unable to come!”

Flinching slightly from the volume of his frustrated groan, Phil concedes that he does have a point. “Yes, that is a problem.” He hums, thoughtful. “You said you can’t orgasm unless you’re with a partner, right?”

There’s a grunt of assent. 

“Okay, let’s try something. What’s your favorite fantasy?”

Clint sniffs. “I dunno, I’ve never really been the kinky fetish kind of guy.”

“Fantasies aren’t necessarily kinky, or fetishes,” Phil says mildly. “But all right. What do you enjoy most for your partner to do to you?”

“Um.” After a short pause, he says, “Touch?” At Phil’s encouraging murmur, he goes on, “I like it when they just, you know, run their fingers over my body? Not, like, pressing or scratching or anything, just moving.” He ends with a chuckle, quick and embarrassed.

“Great! Do you have a pocket square or a scarf with you?”

Clint snorts. “Pocket square? Who do you think I am, the Prince of Wales?” Phil snorts. “Though I’m pretty sure I have a hanky somewhere in my duffel, if that would work?”

“Yes. Get it, and then strip and lie down on the bed.”

“You just cut right to the chase, huh? The name’s Clint, by the way. Clint Barton. What should I call you? Or do you not do names?”

“Considering it’s costing you three-fifty for every minute you’re on the line, it’ll only be to your benefit to not dally, Clint,” Phil replies. “And I usually go by Steve.”

“Oh god, no. I work with a Steve,” Clint says. He sounds slightly horrified.

Seeing no harm in giving Clint his middle name, Phil says, “James, then.”

He finishes up his email, keeping half an ear on the muffled sounds of Clint carrying out his instructions. The springs of the bed creak when Clint shuffles onto it with a grumble.

“The least they could do was let me sit this out at the Mansion. These regulation beds are ridiculously small.”

 _Regulation beds_ , Phil thinks, curiouser and curiouser. He makes a vague sound in reply. In his head, he runs through a half-formed script that he’s going to use with Clint.

“I mean, you should see my bed, man. It can fit, like, five people, no sweat.” Clint sounds proud. “With enough pillows to go around, too.”

Satisfied that he’s reasonably ready, Phil says, “Sounds good. Lie back on those pillows and we’ll get started.”

He takes Clint through the introductory scene setting, keeping his voice low and even. His plan is to get Clint to relax, just enough to trick his mind thinking he isn’t alone, that the touch he’s feeling is someone else’s. One of the things Phil finds himself liking about his job, besides the easy money, is that he actually gets to use his degree, more than he would have if he’d settled for some menial desk job somewhere. After all, working the phone is more like cold reading than anything else. It’s about picking up cues, to follow, rather than lead. Besides, while Phil does get his share of callers from the crazy pool, there’s a significant number of them who are really just lonely and needed someone to talk to. Nick had been right, it really is like therapy.

With how relaxed Clint has gotten, it takes Phil a while to drive him to orgasm, despite having been on the edge for so long. But it happens, finally, Clint’s moans picking up as Phil continues to talk to him over the phone. The bed squeaks viciously, in time to the arrhythmic jerking of his hips when he finally topples over the edge with a shout. Hearing it, Phil can’t help but smile, satisfied. It’s always good to know that he’s still got what it takes.

“Wow. Just... wow, James.” Clint sounds dazed, and Phil preens. “How did you know that would work?”

Shrugging, Phil simply says, “I had a hunch.”

“Wow,” Clint repeats. “After all that, I may just have to call again.”

“Anytime, Clint.”

“Uh, so.” The tiny bed protests with a squeak as Clint shifts. “What now?”

“Well, it’s completely up to you. Most people hang up right after they come, but some like to chat for a while before ending the call. I’m obligated to tell you that the meter’s still running, though.”

“That’s fine,” Clint says dismissively. “What do you usually talk about?”

“Anything, really.” Phil leans back in his swivel chair. There are hushed murmurs of conversation all around him, punctuated by the requisite moaning and grunting, but Phil’s cubicle is thankfully isolated enough that the sounds easily blend into the background. “They mostly tell me about themselves. Problems at home, complaints about work, that kind of thing.”

“Well, we already did that.”

“Right. How are you feeling now? And did you actually say ‘sex ray’?"

“Oh, yeah, a bunch of frat boys actually managed to build it, kinda like a high-tech aphrodisiac. I might have been impressed, if its origins weren’t so creepy. Thank god we stopped them.”

Phil frowns, Clint’s explanation only serving to confuse him even more.

“Anyway, I’m feeling much better now. I’m not so on edge anymore, at least, so I think it’s fading,” Clint goes on to say. “Do you mind if I ask you something, though? I’ve always wondered, how does all this work for you?”

Huh. In all the time that Phil’s been doing this, no one had ever asked him that before. In fact, Phil can count on one hand the number of clients who had asked after him and not have it be an attempt to wheedle out of him his name or address or a racy picture. It makes him feel simultaneously flustered and flattered. He wonders if he should answer honestly; the industry is built on fantasies, after all.

“It doesn’t,” Phil finally says, deciding to go with the truth.

“You mean when you get hot and heavy with someone on the phone, you’re not actually hot and heavy?”

Phil smiles. “Not at all. It’s just a job, like any other. When I’m not working from home, I’m at a call center, not a love tunnel. Not exactly conducive to getting ‘hot and heavy’, as you put it.”

“Huh. I always thought you guys were getting off too on the other end of the phone.” Clint sounds genuinely disappointed.

“For some, working as an operator does function as some sort of fantasy fulfilment. But not for me,” Phil says easily.

“I see,” Clint says after a while. “Guess we all have our own fantasies.”

“I have yet to hear yours.”

At Phil’s blatantly suggestive tone, Clint bursts out laughing. It’s a husky, infectious sound that makes Phil want to smile along, to find out what he’s doing right so he never has to stop hearing it.

“No way I’m ready for round two. But hey, when I am, I’ll call.”

 

***

 

Clint keeps his promise, calling again the following Tuesday, and then again the Tuesday after that. By the end of the month, they’ve established some semblance of a routine. Clint will call and ask for Phil using his unique operator number, jerking himself off on the other end of the phone while Phil talks to him. It doesn’t seem to bother him, knowing Phil is not doing the same. Most of the time, they use scenarios. Since Clint doesn’t have any particularly pressing fantasies, Phil often ends up just describing the latest erotic film or story he’s watched or read that day.

“For research,” he tells Clint stiffly. “I’ll have you know we have an entire library of VHS tapes and adult magazines, dating back more than a decade, at the office for that sole purpose.”

Clint is practically howling with laughter. “I’ll bet it’s alphabetized and sorted by year, too.”

Phil decides against mentioning that he had been the one doing the organizing.

Once they've got the minor matter of orgasms out of the way, Clint talks. About his day, his work, the latest movie he watched. He apparently works in a high-stress environment—“You have no idea, James, it’s literally life or death situations here, every damn day of the week”—and is partial to terrible action movies, the more explosions the better. Not wanting to burn any bridges, he decides not to call Clint out for his fondness for hyperboles.

In return, Phil tells him about the latest in the world of the Kardashians, the books he’s reading, running into his neighbor in the cereal aisle. She had given Phil the dirtiest smirk when she saw him, followed by a wink.

“She was probably coming on to you,” Clint says.

Phil doesn’t think so. Disregarding the fact that he is, at best, average in the looks department, from the sound of it, she already has a partner with whom she frequently enjoys loud, acrobatic sex.

“I’ve spent many a night lying awake, cursing the thin walls between us,” he tells Clint, who remains unconvinced.

“Nah, I still think she was coming on to you. I mean, you’re a hot dude.”

Trying very hard to not feel pleased about the compliment and how disgruntled Clint sounds, he replies, “You can’t know that, we’ve never met.”

Clint clicks his tongue in disagreement. “I just know. You’ve a nice voice. Not a stretch to assume you have a nice face and body, too,” he says teasingly.

Times like these, Phil’s just glad there’s a phone between them so Clint can’t see him blush. 

It’s problematic, the way Clint has, over the course of a handful of phone calls, whittled away at the walls Phil had built when he first started the job. No talking about his personal life. No sharing of anecdotes. Certainly not feeling the leap in his pulse when Clint calls, or the surge of arousal when his voice slides low and intimate. Especially not the way he has to restrain himself from moaning along like the backing track of an obscenely erotic duet. While that is his job description, Clint knowing acutely his lack of active interest in the scenes they role play has rendered the fake grunting rather pointless.

Sometimes he finds himself regretting telling Clint all that he did during that very first phone call.

Still, while he knows it would be better to just shut down this unprofessional interest he has in Clint while he’s still able to, he just can’t help being fond of him. The man is witty and clearly intelligent, and Phil genuinely enjoys their conversations, more than he ever has with any of his other clients. Even so, there are times when he would say something in that self-deprecating tone that gives Phil the urge to hug him and smack him on the back of his head at the same time.

(That Phil makes more from their Tuesday calls than the rest of the week also doesn’t hurt. He once asked Clint if he was aware he’s spending a lot of money on calling the agency, to which Clint just replies that it’s fine, he’s not the one paying for it anyway. That had prompted more questions, but Phil wisely decides not to stare a gift horse in the mouth.)

So yes, Clint is a great client, one of the best Phil has ever had, if he’s being honest with himself. Sometimes, though, Clint’s choice of conversation topic is so strange Phil just can’t help wondering he’s a little touched in the head.

De-aging? Turning into animals? Sentient household appliances? Clint is either staging elaborate scenarios, with enthusiastic participating characters, or he’s experiencing terrifically detailed drug-induced delusions. On principle, Phil doesn’t begrudge anyone the use of mood stabilizers or enhancers, but there’s recreation, and then there’s taking it way too far.

“Are you on something?” he warily asks once, when Clint finally stops rambling about having to babysit a bunch of children. Children who were not five minutes ago, if Phil deduces correctly, fully-grown men and women. 

“What? No!” Clint’s protest is immediate and vehement enough that it has Phil apologizing on reflex. “Jesus Christ, no. And the brat just won’t stop fucking meddling with—well, it’s his stuff, but— _goddamnit Anthony, I swear I will tie you up and take a paddle to your ass if you do not stop that at once!_ ”

The screams of a toddler in the throes of a tantrum makes Phil’s eyebrows rise to his hairline. He's rather impressed that Clint actually managed to get an honest-to-god child to take part in his harebrained schemes.

“Perhaps if you used less threats and more reasonable persuasion, they would be more amenable to listening,” he suggests.

“I’m not threa—” Phil winces at the sound of breaking glass. Clint is a little too committed to the scene, he thinks. “Hang on, I gotta go see what that was.”

Phil waits patiently, surfing the web as he does. He’s barely read a page when the beeping sound of keys being pressed filters over the phone lines.

“Clint?”

He hears a childish giggle, before the key pressing resumes.

“Anthony?” he tries.

“Nu-uh!” Comes the chirpy response.

“Clint put Tony in the timeout corner,” another boy chimes in helpfully. “Steve’s playing with the phone. Are you his boyfriend?”

The name sounds familiar, Phil thinks, before realization dawns. That’s right, Clint once mentioned he worked with a Steve.

“I am not his boyfriend. And you should probably stop that, Steve. You don’t want Clint putting you in the timeout corner with Anthony, now do you?” he says mildly. The key pressing stops.

“No,” Steve says in a small voice. Phil smiles, satisfied.

A new voice pipes up. “Clint calls you a lot.”

The girl sounds much too shrewd for her age. Phil clears his throat. “What’s your name?”

“Natasha,” she replies guardedly, over sharp, distinct sound of scraping metal.

“Well, Natasha, Clint and I are—” He stops there, considering. What are they? No longer operator and client, that’s for sure. But friends? Are they friends?

His train of thought is interrupted by Clint picking up the phone. “Sorry, James, were the kids harassing you? Tasha, I told you to put those knives away. You could hurt somebody.” Clint sounds as though he’s been run ragged by the little hooligans, and Phil smiles fondly.

“We were just talking. Why don’t you put on a movie for them? You wouldn’t have to supervise so much.” De-aging or no de-aging, Phil wants to spend some quality talk time with Clint, and if the only way he'll get what he wants is to play along, he will.

Pleased, Clint says, “Good idea. Why didn’t I think of that? You’re a genius, James.”

“Phil.” He takes a deep breath when Clint makes a questioning noise, and before he can talk himself out of it, Phil says, “My real name’s Phil, actually.”

“Well then, thank you, Phil.”

The warmth in Clint’s voice follows Phil all the way into his dreams that night.

 

***

 

October passes by in a blur, as does November, and before he knows it, Thanksgiving is just around the corner. It’s not his first holiday without family, but he misses his mother’s signature sweet potato pie and stuffed turkey all the same. As he has done for the last few years, he pencils in his leave and makes plans to have dinner with Nick a couple of weeks in advance.

Clint sounds disappointed when Phil informs him that he won’t be available for their standard Tuesday call, although he tells Phil he understands.

“I mean, it’s the holidays and all. There’s probably not enough incoming calls to stay business as usual, huh?” he says gloomily.

“Actually, you’d be surprised at the number of calls we get during the holidays,” Phil replies with a grimace.

Like Clint, Phil used to think there would be less people looking to get off with a virtual stranger on significant calendar dates, but it is, surprisingly, the complete opposite. The number of calls Phil had to field the first Easter he decided to take a shift had him swearing off working holidays altogether, even if he had made an obscene amount of money that day. Losing his voice was not worth it, and Phil had gotten quite sick of repeatedly sticking his fingers into a tub of Vaseline.

It takes him a while to force out his next words. “If you require our services, there are a few operators who will be taking shifts that day.”

Resolutely, he pushes away the surge of possessiveness at the thought of Clint calling in to chat with another operator, refusing to wallow in it altogether. Clint is his friend, he reasons with himself. Whether he’s getting his rocks off with Phil or someone else should not have any bearing on their friendship.

Still, he’s relieved when Clint says, “Nah, I won’t have the time anyway. The guys roped me into chef duties this year, so I’ll probably be in the kitchen all day.

The dinner with Nick is a quiet affair as usual, although his friend notes that he has stopped griping at him about tricking him into the sex trade.

“This have anything to do with your new regular?” Nicks asks, smirking.

“Clint’s a client, Nick.”

“So was Mark,” comes the reply, and Phil levels him with a glare, because Nick should know better than to bring up that disaster. Nick holds up his hands in apology. “Sorry, but it’s been years. It’s time for you to get back into the ‘dating game’, don’t you think?”

Grimacing in distaste at Nick’s air quotes, Phil says, “We’re just friends.”

“Yeah, who talk for hours at a time. You can’t be fake fucking for so long, and you don’t talk to someone for hours on end unless you’re dating, either. Hell, some dating couples don’t even talk.”

Phil sputters. “You’ve been keeping track of my calls?”

“I just noticed that you’ve been logging longer calls with the same person when I was doing the books. Can’t blame a guy for being curious. So, what’s the lowdown with this Clint?”

“Nothing. I told you, we’re friends.”

“Friends,” Nick says, waggling his eyebrows , “Who are jerking off together over the phone. At least, I hope you are.”

Phil nearly spits out his beer. “Nick!”

“What? As long as it’s consensual, I don’t care if you guys feel the need to actually do what you tell clients you’re doing. What, you mean you don’t?”

“No!”

Nick rolls his eyes. “Come on, you can’t tell me you have never gotten off with a client, ever.”

“It’s not professional,” is all Phil says.

He isn't hedging, either. Despite the length and frequency of their calls, and the now countless times he’s talked Clint into an orgasm (or more, on one memorable occasion when Clint comes a second time just from listening to Phil reading a passage from an erotic novel he’d been thumbing through) Phil has never let himself be caught up in the moment. Jerking himself off while he’s with a client is the one line he will never cross, and though it’s been a non-issue up until now, his recent calls with Clint have been cutting it uncomfortably close. For all that Phil is the one offering the services of his voice, the sounds Clint makes are downright pornographic. Just the memory of Clint’s desperate whimpers as he comes is enough to send Phil over the edge in the shower after, never mind that he still has no idea what Clint looks like. He could be a seventy year old grandfather of two for all he knows. 

Not that he’s telling Nick any of that.

“Besides, he’s not interested,” he says instead. He’s not lying. While Clint flirts, that’s all it is, flirtations. None of which can be construed as advances. Quickly, he adds, “And neither am I. It’s a business relationship, that’s all.”

“I don’t think he’d be calling you back so many times and for so long if he just sees you as an operator, Phil. You should give him a chance. Give yourself a chance,” Nick says, uncharacteristically serious. “Just think about it.”

Phil looks away. Maybe he won’t give him that fruit basket after all.

 

***

 

“Heads up, Phil, the world’s probably gonna end in a couple of days,” Clint says one day without preamble.

At the familiar voice, Phil perks up, sticking a finger in his book to mark his place. He’s on his couch, having decided to work from home this week. 

“I beg your pardon?”

“The world, Phil, the marble we live on. The one we think is the center of the universe,” Clint says. “Everything, gone, poof. Dust in the wind.”

Phil blinks. “Did you just quote Kansas at me?”

Clint ignores him, going on forlornly, “We’re going to disappear, Phil, and it’s going to be all my fault.”

It takes Phil a few moments, but when he finally catches on, he nearly bursts out laughing. This is Clint’s most dramatic and absurd scene yet. 

Thinking that two can play this game, Phil pitches his voice low and purrs, “Well, we’ve got to do something about that.”

There’s a short silence, then Clint ventures hesitantly, “Phil?”

“Are you alone, Clint?”

Clint’s breathing hitches at the naked promise in Phil’s voice. “Yeah, I’m in my room,” he says, then adds, “Sitting on my bed.”

“The bed that fits five people? With the pillows?” Phil smiles. “I remember that bed. We’ve had good times on that bed.” Phil hears Clint shifting, the sheets rasping as he does. “Just thinking about them makes me hard, Clint.”

“Yeah?” Clint asks, arousal turning his voice rough. “Are you hard for me?”

“Oh yes,” Phil breathes. "So very hard. Touch yourself, Clint. I want you to touch yourself."

He hears Clint tugging his pants down, belt buckle clinking loudly. 

“Oh god. _Phil_.” The way Clint’s breath catches on a moan makes Phil’s pulse leap. “Feels so good.”

“Yeah? Stroke it, Clint. I want you to stroke it. Then flick your thumb at the head. Imagine it's my hand.” The resulting groan is loud and long. "You like that, don't you? You like it when I touch you."

“Yes,” Clint hisses, the sound shooting straight to Phil’s cock. “I love it, I love your hands, Phil, love your fingers, _oh fuck_ , I love them so much. But I love your mouth better.”

“Yeah? You want my mouth on you? Kissing, licking, sucking you all over?” Phil whispers. “What else do you want, Clint?”

Clint is panting, his moans growing louder and more frequent. “I want, oh god, I want you to touch yourself.”

So caught up in the moment, Phil doesn’t realize he has actually slid his hand down his body until he’s palming his cock. He hisses at the pressure, the speed at which the air left his lungs leaving him light-headed.

“Are you touching yourself, Phil?”

Phil answers in the affirmative through clenched teeth, even though he’s already reluctantly taking his hand away from his crotch.

Unaware, Clint goes on, “I wish I could touch you, Phil. I’d— _Jesus that feels good_ —I'd wrap my hand around you, stroke you nice and slow.”

The whimper slips out as Phil’s hips buck into the air, desperate for that phantom touch. “That feels good, Clint. What else do you want?”

Clint moans brokenly. “I want. I want your fingers in me. Three of them, just shove them in, because I’m ready for you. I’m always ready for you, Phil.”

Phil has to grit his teeth against the urge to slip his hand into his pants.

“I’ve got my fingers in you, Clint. You’re so warm and wet and loose, so ready for me. Do you think about me when you’re prepping yourself? Do you?”

“Yes,” comes the hoarse reply. Phil can hear the lewd sounds of Clint thrusting his fingers into himself. “I think about you. I think about you all the time, Phil, your fucking voice. I wish—I wish this is as good for you as it is for me. I—” Clint cuts himself off with a gasp. “Oh fuck, Phil, I’m gonna come. Phil.  _Phil!_ ”

“Come on, Clint, come for me. I want to hear you,” Phil urges.

His cock aches for relief but he resolutely clenches his fists. He doesn’t want it like this. He doesn’t want to just get off with Clint’s voice in his ear. He wants to touch, taste, feel. He wants to wrap himself up in Clint, wrap himself around Clint. He wants—

“I want to see you, Clint, let me see you,” he says, earnest.

“Phil,” Clint whimpers, and promptly comes.

It always takes Clint a while to come down from the euphoria, and Phil greedily listens for the soft, satisfied purrs, the way his breath catches as he shudders from the aftershocks. He’s still hard, but it’s more bearable now that Clint’s no longer doing his best impression of porn star extraordinaire.

He’ll ask Clint, he tells himself. Nick’s right. He can’t hide away forever. He’ll ask him, he’ll offer to take this offline, he’ll take a chance on Clint.

Taking a deep, calming breath, he waits for the sound of Clint stretching, an indication that the high is fading and that he’s floating back to earth.

Except this time it doesn’t happen. He barely hears the whispered “Fuck,” before there’s only a dial tone in his ear.

 

***

 

The world doesn’t end.

 

***

 

It’s Christmas Eve and the agency is busier than ever. The phones are ringing off the hook all day with lonely men and women on the other end, forcing everyone to work at double time to field all the calls and get their Christmas shopping and errands done. Still, it seems there’s nothing that can dampen the holiday spirit. The agency is abuzz with good cheer wherever one turns, happy smiles all around.

Except Phil’s.

It’s been weeks since that call. Weeks since Phil, upon deciding he was ready to put his heart on the line, was unceremoniously hung up on. Weeks since Clint has called Phil again, despite never having missed a Tuesday without telling him in advance.

Weeks during which Phil replayed that final, disastrous call in his head, over and over, wondering just where he went wrong. Was he too forward? Did he overstep his boundaries, cross a line somehow, and make Clint uncomfortable?

Or maybe it wasn’t him at all. Maybe Clint just got tired of the whole phone sex thing. Maybe he decided he didn’t want to pay a voice an exorbitant amount of money, just to jack himself off. Maybe—

Maybe he’s met someone.

Phil is absolutely not moping, regardless of what Nick says.

He leans back against the kitchen island, coffee in hand, staring despondently at the pile of trims and ornaments still sitting in their box in the corner. The tree, delivered to his doorstep a month ago, is right next to the fireplace where the delivery guys had placed it, needles still bare. Jasper had been here last year to help him put it up, and the year before that, his colleagues at the agency. But Jasper’s married now, happily so, and everyone else Phil knows will be at the Christmas party Nick is throwing his employees. The more apparent it is that it’s just going to be him this year, the more Phil has been putting off decorating it.

He ignores that small part inside him that had been hoping it could have been with Clint.

The harsh ringing of his cellphone cuts through the muted cacophony of Christmas songs his neighbors have been playing on repeat for the entire day. Draining the rest of his coffee, he sets his mug in the sink.

“Hey, Nick.”

“Let me guess. You’re still sitting around in last night’s pajamas, pining away.”

Looking down at his t-shirt and sleep pants, Phil clears his throat. “No. Maybe. But I'm only admitting to the part about the pajamas.”

Nick chuckles. “You could still come to the party, you know. There’ll be cookies and cake and booze, and you don’t even have to take part in any of the party games if you don’t want to. What do you say?”

“Thanks, Nick, but I think I’ll pass,” he says.

“Well, let me know if you change your mind.”

“Will do. Enjoy the party.”

Once he’s ended the call, Phil decides to go to the store. Forgoing decorations is all well and good, but tree or no tree, he still needs food.

He manages to make it to the store just before it closes for the holidays. Despite it being late evening on Christmas Eve, it’s no less crowded than usual. The last minute shoppers are zipping around with their carts, panicked and frazzled as they plow through other people to check items off their lists.

At the cereal aisle, Phil neatly sidesteps a woman juggling a crying baby and a cart filled with supplies. The baby’s hat had fallen on the ground. Picking up the fallen hat, Phil places it securely on the baby’s head. It earns him a grateful, if slightly tight smile.

“Merry Christmas,” he says.

“I’ll be glad when it’s over,” she grumbles as she wheels past him.

He heads toward the frozen food section, intending to get a hassle-free frozen dinner. There’s no need for ham or mince pie, he convinces himself, when he can get them practically any other time of the year. Besides, he still has some Christmas cookies left over. He’s grabbing a six pack at the liquor section—none of that eggnog nonsense, he hates that stuff—when he runs into his neighbor.

“Phil!” Natasha is all fiery hair and slinky grace, even in a loose sweatshirt and baggy jeans. “Doing some last minute shopping?”

Phil smiles, awkward. He doesn’t really know her that well, but he likes her well enough, despite being intimately acquainted with what she sounds like during sex.

“I’m just picking up some food to last me through to tomorrow.”

“Not going home for the holidays?”

Phil shrugs. “There’s no one left but me.”

She nods. “I see. In that case, why don’t you come by later? I blackmailed a friend into cooking for me and my partner tonight, he’s a fantastic chef, and there’s bound to be more than the three of us could eat,” she says, lips raised in a barely there smile.

“I—” Phil tries to decline, but something about that smile makes him reconsider. “Sure,” he gives in. What the hell, he hasn’t really been looking forward to his—he checks the package—Chicken Enchilada Casserole anyway. 

They walk the two blocks back to their complex companionably, breath puffing out in white clouds as they make small talk. The streets are quieter than usual, everyone having gone home for the rest of the week. Phil is struck by a sudden pang of loneliness. It’s been years, but he still misses his family terribly. He doesn’t think it’ll ever fade. 

The melancholia eases slightly when they enter their building. The hallways are permeated with the pleasant smell of home cooking.

“Come on in,” Natasha says, unlocking her door. She gestures at Phil’s bags. “You can stick those in my fridge for now.”

The aroma of roast meat grows stronger once Phil steps through the doorway, and he sniffs appreciatively as he looks around. Natasha’s apartment is the complete opposite of his. Where his is bare of anything remotely resembling Christmas cheer, hers has been adorned with festive decorations, garlands and wreaths and socks covering every spare inch from ceiling to floor. There are piles of presents under the tree, which is similarly festooned with twinkling lights and multicolored baubles, some of which are clearly handmade. Phil even spies a few sprigs of mistletoe peeking out from above doorways.

“They’re both huge fans of Christmas,” she says by way of explanation, shrugging. Slipping off her shoes, she makes her way to the kitchen, calling out, “I’m back.”

There’s a man standing at the stove, his back facing them. Phil makes out close cropped dirty blond hair, a broad back that tapers to a trim waist, and lets his gaze linger on the pair of jeans that hug him in all the right places.

“Finally,” comes the reply as the man turns around, and the voice tugs at a memory, achingly familiar. “Did you get the rum?”

“Yes, Clint, I got the rum.”

Phil stiffens. Clint. There must be dozens of them in New York, hundreds, but Phil would recognize that barely there drawl anywhere.

“Hey there,” Clint is saying, all sunny smile and sparkling blue eyes. “You a friend of Tasha’s?”

It’s like looking into the sun. Phil is so busy staring he doesn’t see the smug, knowing look on Natasha’s face.

“This is my neighbor, Phil. He’ll be staying for dinner.”

Phil sees the exact moment Clint puts two and two together. His face, so open before, shuts down completely, but not before Phil sees the panic in his eyes. On reflex, Phil sticks out his hand.

“Phil Coulson.”

Clint starts to reach out, then hurriedly snatches his hand back and wipes it on the front of his jeans. It leaves a light smudge of flour.

“Clint. Clint Barton.”

A sizzling sound makes Clint jump. “Shit.” Fiddling with the knobs, he motions Natasha over.

Watching their heads bent together as they whisper fiercely to each other, Phil feels a surge of bitterness. He was right, after all. Clint did meet someone.

“I’m just gonna—” Phil gestures, turning to leave.

Clint’s head jerks up. “Wait!” Striding forward, he grabs Phil’s wrist. “Tasha, could you?”

He barely waits for her reply before he’s tugging Phil out the kitchen and into the living room, pressing him down onto the couch as he stands before him. The silence grows increasingly awkward.

“So the world didn’t end.” Phil tries for levity.

It works, breaking the tension that was building up between them. Clint’s chuckles sound exactly the same over the phone and in person, and are so infectious Phil finds himself grinning along, albeit weakly.

“No,” Clint finally says. He settles himself on the Ottoman at the foot of the couch. “No, it didn’t. We stopped it.” He glances up, a quick flash of blue between thick lashes, before he ducks his head and looks away. “Um. Hi.”

He looks so adorably bashful that Phil can’t help but smile, despite the way he’s wound as tense as a spring. “Hello, Clint.”

Letting out a soft huff of nervous laughter, Clint says, “You’re not what I—I don’t know what I expected. I mean, I imagined you’d look good, from the suits you always said you’re wearing, but.” He waves a hand at Phil. “You’re fucking GQ, man.”

Phil blushes. “I, uh. Thank you?” After a pause, he says, “You’re not what I expected either, I mean...” He watches as Clint picks at the material of his jeans. “You didn’t tell me you were gorgeous.”

“Aw, come on,” Clint mutters, shy.

There’s a few moments of charged silence as they stare at each other. Then Clint looks away.

“So I guess I should, uh, explain. Apologize,” he says, the same time Phil says, “I’m sor—”, before he stops.

“What?” they say in unison, and Clint cracks first, snickering under his breath. He’s attractive when he laughs, Phil thinks, all crow’s feet and straight white teeth. He’s struck by the sudden urge to find out what it feels like to kiss him.

“You don’t have anything to apologize for,” he says instead, hurriedly diverting his train of thought. Taking a deep breath, he says, “I was unprofessional and it made you uncomfortable. You were my best client, and I really hope—”

“Wait, you think I hung up because you made me uncomfortable?” Clint sounds genuinely bewildered.

Phil bites his lip. “Yes.”

“Well, you’re wrong,” Clint says, shaking his head.

Tilting his head to the side, Phil furrows his brow. “I don’t understand.”

“Phil, I never wanted to be your client. At least, I haven’t since the first few times I called. Talking to you, listening to your voice, those were the highlights of my week. And hell, though I know for a fact it’s not, I mean, you told me yourself you didn’t, but.” Clint’s sigh is explosive. “I still wish it were the same for you.”

Running a hand through his hair and over his face in a despairing gesture, he continues, “I hung up because I wanted more, Phil. I didn’t just want phone calls anymore. I didn’t want to just be a voice on the phone, I didn’t want to spend every waking hour wondering what you look like, but more than that, I didn’t want to be just a three-fifty a minute guy you’re obligated to get off.”

Phil just stares at him, eyes wide. His heart is thumping so loudly in his ears, he's afraid he's heard wrong.

“So I panicked. Because I wanted more than I could ever have, more than you could ever give. I know I’ve ruined everything, but,” Clint takes a deep breath. “Maybe we can still be friends? You know? Talk like we did before?”

Clint’s hands are clasped together, his voice hopeful as he waits for Phil’s answer. Muted sounds of silverware clinking together drifts over from the kitchen. The hum of the oven seems unnaturally loud.

“I—” The word comes out as a hoarse croak and Phil clears his throat. “I don’t want to be friends, Clint.”

Shoulders slumping, Clint nods bitterly. “I underst—”

“No,” Phil cuts in, anxious to prevent any misunderstanding. “No, Clint. What I meant was, everything you wanted, I want them too. I was,” Phil shakes his head, lips quirking up into an embarrassed smile. “I was actually going to ask you out, before you hung up. I thought—I thought you’d realized it and didn’t like it, so,” he trails off, shrugging.

Clint’s gaze is fixed on him, blue eyes bright with disbelief. “You mean it?”

Phil licks his lips. Nodding, he says earnestly, with a lopsided smile, “If you still want me.”

Clint’s answering smile is blinding. Phil knows he must be grinning like a loon, but he can’t bear to look away.

He doesn’t realize that he’s moved, until Clint is in his space and he’s in Clint’s, legs tangled up together. Clint’s large, warm hands cup his cheeks, slowly drawing Phil’s face closer and closer toward his, and Phil bunches his fists in the material of Clint’s t-shirt as their lips meet, soft and sweet. Clint tastes like bourbon and milk, with just a hint of cinnamon. Delighted, Phil presses forward, wanting more of the intoxicating taste.

He whines a little when Clint pulls away, clutching at his shirt to pull him back for more kisses. Clint obliges, one hand curling around his nape while the other slips down to his thigh. He moans when Clint’s tongue meets his, sighing into his mouth. Kissing Clint is better than he’s dreamed, he thinks happily. Even with the taste of eggnog clinging stubbornly to his mouth.

When he laughs, Clint lifts his head, pupils blown, lips reddened and wet with spit. “What?” he asks, pouting adorably.

Phil grins. “I was just thinking about how I hate eggnog,” he explains.

“You hate eggnog?” Clint draws back, clearly aghast. “But it’s Christmas in a mug!”

When Phil just shrugs, Clint's eyes narrow. “You’re not one of those Christmas Grinches, are you? How many candy canes have you eaten since the start of the month?”

Laughing, Phil says, “After all we’ve been through, this is the deal breaker?”

“That depends. On whether that number is larger or equal to zero.” He doesn’t stop squinting suspiciously at Phil, who rolls his eyes.

“Tell you what, I’ll let you come over and decorate my tree later, if you’ll forget about the eggnog and the candy canes?”

“Deal,” Clint says cheerfully, ducking his head for a quick kiss to seal the promise.

One kiss turns into two, then three, then numerous more, until Phil is humming into Clint’s mouth, his entire front pressed up against Clint, his hands under his shirt, sliding over warm skin.

Behind them, Natasha clears her throat. “If you two are quite done,” she says.

“Sam will be back soon, and while we’re happy for you, we’d like to eat some time before tomorrow.” She crooks a finger at Clint, who gives Phil’s hand a squeeze before rising reluctantly.

“Duty calls,” he says with a shrug. Natasha watches him pad into the kitchen, before turning back to Phil.

“Oh, and Phil?” She smirks. “You may want to switch to taking calls with a landline when you’re working from home. You don’t want someone listening in on your calls, do you?”

Winking, she disappears behind the bedroom door.

 

***

 

By Christmas morning, Phil’s apartment is as festive as Natasha’s. The smell of freshly baked cookies would linger for days after that.

The following day, Clint makes a chiffon cake with the lemons from the depths of Phil’s fridge before he disappears, returning late in the evening with a duffel bag.

Occasionally, Clint will leave to save the world, but he always comes home by morning.

And on the last day of the year, Phil buys a fixed line telephone.  

 

**Author's Note:**

> Fun fact: I had been working on a phone sex operator!Clint story when I got this prompt. And with this, I can check fic exchange off my bucket list woohoo!
> 
> A million thank yous to [eightninetwo](http://eightninetwo.livejournal.com/) for the beta and handholding. I couldn't have done this without you. ♥
> 
> Title from Atmosphere's album.


End file.
